


you will be brilliant

by Imiaslavie



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Crying, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Episode: Selfishness v. Selflessness, Prinxiety is quiet and building and not the main focus but it's here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:10:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imiaslavie/pseuds/Imiaslavie
Summary: After Virgil sinks out, he doesn't go to his room. He goes to check up on Roman.And Roman is far from being okay.





	you will be brilliant

**Author's Note:**

> This episode, holy hell, guys. It snatched my uwus and my wigs. And my heart. And I love Deceit more than anything. But also — I hurt for Roman.
> 
> Additional CW: cursing, hopelessness.
> 
> Set right after Selfishness v. Selflessness.
> 
> Also posted on my art Tumblr — http://imyasart.tumblr.com/post/183872345389/you-will-be-brilliant
> 
> A-a-and not beta-ed. Do contact me if you see a mistake, pretty please!)

In Roman's very humble opinion, Virgil's timing sucks. It always has, especially back in the days when he was playing a very convincing role of an overachieving nuisance and lived to ruin each and every video with his remarks.

Or maybe this particular situation is about Virgil's lack of tact.

“I'm busy,” Roman says through his teeth, turning away.

“With what? Your drawing board that is _so_ imaginary even I can't see it?” Virgil says. On most days, such words would be accompanied by a smirk so poignant it would be heard in his intonations. But it seems that Virgil is still very much on edge: the words sound harsher than... than Roman finds acceptable right now.

“I said I need to get back to work and I meant it. And you're interrupting. Didn't I hear you saying you wanted to go be 'cool' somewhere else?” With a snap of his fingers, a huge whiteboard appears in front of them, a pack of multicolored markers in a holder box. Roman turns his back on Virgil and faces the board, contemplating its size... and trying not to be intimidated by it.

“Who said I meant my room?” Virgil comes to stand by his side. “This is, technically, 'somewhere else', so...” He drawls out the last vowel.

Roman purses his lips. He isn't in a mood for banter. He isn't in a mood for company. He isn't in a mood, full stop. And Virgil, being the godforsaken anxiety, should damn well feel it.

And leave.

“No need to be this touchy. I just came to check up on you. The whole thing was a mess.”

Touchy? Since when the silence is being _touchy_? Roman grabs a red marker and takes the cap off. The popping sound of it is loud, and it's one of the things Roman came to associate with the start of work. Usually, it sends a swift chill of anticipation over his skin. Keyword: usually.

“Princey?” Virgil tries again, and this time his voice finally sounds... softer. And... oh gosh, damn, darn it—

Roman's hand shakes as he brings the tip of the marker closer to the board, right at the center. _Go away, please_ , he thinks. _You should not see it. You should not see me like this_. The marker hovers some millimetres over the board. _Please don't be so kind_ , he pleas.

Because he is dangerously close to breaking. And he doesn't know what word, what gesture will be the last straw before he—

“Roman...”

The marker falls, clanking loudly over the edge of the board.

There's a sharp intake of breath.

Roman sobs.

His face curls into an ugly grimace as he tries to hold back the tears. He slaps a hand over his mouth, but it's of no help: another sob escapes him, then a thin whine. Tears blur his vision, and his lashes stick together, and his face feels so disgusting and weird.

“He wuh-wuh-was right,” Roman forces the words out. "I wanted to win.” His throat constricts, a series of dry short breaths escaping his mouth. "Not just to— to get what I want and go for tha— that callback. I wanted to be in the right. I— I—”

Something cold comes to rest over Roman's nape. It makes him aware of how hot his skin is, how his lungs overwork, how his clothes seem too tight. The weight on his nape moves in gentle waves, and... Virgil's hand. It must be. His hands are always cold. Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I wanted to be in the right. To...” Three quick breaths. “To maybe, if it was the right way, to... for us realize it. And act on it. But...” He grits his teeth. _Stop crying, stop, stop, stop!_ “It wasn't right. I made that judgment and I meant it. I'm not going back on my word.”

“Roman... listen—”

With a little more force than necessary, Roman slaps Virgil's hand away and steps back.

“I have a right to be upset!” he cries out, his voice breaking; he faces Virgil for the first time since all of this disaster has begun. “I have a right to be hurt! Even if I know that we did the right thing! I have a right to be upset at hours and energy I wasted! That was my— my dream, and I— I have a right to—”

The crying is ugly and loud, returning threefold, making a mess of Roman's thoughts and feelings and he's not in control and he must run away and hide and he doesn't actually have a right to be this way no—

Virgil's arms come around Roman's neck, a sure, tight grip, and bring him down, Roman's chin resting in the crook of Virgil's neck. The hoodie is oh so very soft and smells like it was washed just recently, clean and crispy, like comfort, like home, like—

Roman clutches at the fabric of the hoodie, encloses Virgil in his hold, feeling the heat of his back. His hands don't shake anymore, not with how painfully he clenches his fingers.

“Yes, you do,” Virgil says quietly right into his ear, his warm breath washing over it. "You have every right in the world to be upset. The right thing isn't always fair.”

Roman leans his head just a bit to the left, just enough so his forehead and temple are tickled by Virgil's hair. He tries to even out his breath.

“And maybe it's hard to think about it now, but... The opportunities will come. And you will take them. And you will be brilliant.”

More tears gather at the corner of Roman's eyes. But his chest, it's— He feels— He feels lighter. There's the weight of Virgil's arms, the desperate force behind it — and he feels _lighter_.

“Roman. I'm very, very proud of you. Of everything you've done today.”

Oh, that... This is... But...

With force, loathing to move from his position that brings him so much comfort, Roman lifts his head from Virgil's shoulder and tries to lean back enough to look him in the eyes. Virgil weakens his hold but doesn't let go completely, his arms still encircling Roman's shoulders.

“Even... now?” Roman asks, his voice small and raspy.

“Especially now,” Virgil says, no shadow of doubt in his voice. And his smile... That gentle thing full of love that he usually reserves for Patton — he is giving it to Roman. And the way it makes Roman feel, it's... better than he has ever imagined. It feels like... everything. Like something that might make going through any struggle worth it.

As they hug this time, a second time, it's Roman who leads, hugging Virgil tight, his thumbs rubbing quick lines onto him.

“Thank you... Virgil.”

Virgil just hums in response. He makes no attempts to move away. Roman exhales, relief filling all his body.

 _Thank you, thank you, thank you_ , beats in his head as they hold each other. _I needed what you gave me, so damn much, even though I didn't know I needed it, even though I fought you on that_.

And with his head so clear, it's much easier to believe in what Virgil said about new opportunities. About his brilliance. It doesn't feel like acid to think of what is lost. And the emptiness of the whiteboard doesn't scare him anymore. In fact...

“ _What_ are you doing?” Virgil says, his trademarked grumpiness back, as Roman manoeuvres them until Virgil's back almost leans on the board.

“I...” Roman says, grabbing one of the markers with one hand and wrapping the other arm more comfortably around Virgil, “am working, my dear stormy knight.” He draws the outline of a big square in the middle, then sections it into five more-or-less even pieces. Now, let's see...

A short pause. Virgil makes an _mmhm_ noise. “And what? Do you need me right _here_ for that?”

Roman stills his hand, the marker making a big dot at the end of the word he is writing, and looks at Virgil. Roman... doesn't know how to answer this. But his arm — almost involuntarily — tightens its grip around Virgil's waist.

Something in Virgil's face shifts, and then, before Roman can even register it, he turns around and moves to stand with his side pressed tightly against Roman, Roman's arm still holding him.

Virgil snaps his fingers. The sounds of a bass guitar, brazen and energetic, fill the room. He grabs a marker, a strict black one, and unclasps it.

“So... what did you have in mind, Princey?”

Roman beams.

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, it was supposed to have a different ending. Virgil wasn't supposed to succeed in helping Roman. Virgil wasn't supposed to use touch. It wasn't supposed to be a build-up for prinxiety. Roman wasn't supposed to start feeling better. I thought he would scream and run away, appearing in an endless empty field with a snap of his fingers and falling to his knees, crying and alone.
> 
> But as I typed, they both guided me. And now we have this. So... thank you, my darlings.


End file.
